I don’t know exactly why I got excited at first sight of “Swisha Sweets.” I’m not familiar with Cap One. I’m not even a fan of the famous cigar of the same name. And I’m not sure if there’s any psychological correlation, but “Donuts,” “Swisha Sweets?” It’s close enough to arouse my hip hop taste buds. To take enough pride in your songs to name them after tasty treats, it just sounds… enticing. Of course, I’m not about to judge a book by its cover, which in this case is actually a really dope knock off of the actual Swisher Sweets carton. So I put my damn lips to the filter.
Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for me to realize I was excited over nothing. Right off the bat, “Ready for War” sounds like Three Six Mafia on a heroin withdrawal, and that’s including the excruciatingly awful beat (Juicy J’s farts sound better). Cap One wastes no time revealing his character. And I say character because, if his rhymes were even slightly true, he would have been in jail, long ago. He is, essentially, a whiny gangster with nothing to say. Onward!
It is from this point on we are bombarded by a barrage of utter bullshit. On top of shitty, shitty, laptop-made beats, Cap and his ‘lil homies bark (more like moan) nothings into the microphone. On “Hit ’em Up,” “clock them glocks and make them pop” was about all I needed to hear before my head was in my hands. Alas, it was the best line of the song. He recites the entire hook of Lil Jon’s “Get Low” on “Shoot the Club Up,” skeet-skeet and all, and taps into his creative genius for “Assassins” (“don’t fuck with me! We assassins, assassins”).
It’s not ALL bad. “Flowers 4 Ya Witness” is definitely a decent slangin’ tale, and “I Don’t Wanna Live No More,” while dark, is done the right way. While the production sounds like an early 90’s take on the Twilight Zone, it works well with Cap’s outrageous, murderous rhymes. But before long it’s back to the same ol’ shit. Dude’s bustin’ caps, collecting hoes, telling the police to fuck themselves; it’s like a journey through the most outplayed rehash in all of hip hop. At one point he blows the arms off of a woman trying to escape from him. C’MON YO.
By “211” (10 minutes into the listen), I figured I was at least a half hour deep. Boy, was I wrong. I guess there’s only so much one can take. “Gimme your money and your motherfucking product bitch,” and “you better tell me where he keeps his motherfucking stash, I’m only asking one time before I pop that ass” are within 30 seconds of each other. Yes, it’s downhill from there. I mean, I hate to just dismiss an album as senseless, mindless violence, but I call ’em how I see ’em. 42 minutes never felt longer!